


Black Canvas

by emynn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The call, naturally, came at the worst possible time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Britin 30 Day Challenge on Tumblr, Prompt #10: [Canvas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXj0dF7LAyE) by Imogen Heap. Set about ten years post-series.

The call, naturally, came at the worst possible time.

Justin was going on his seventh straight night of nearly no sleep. He had a show at the end of the month and his agent suddenly decided that his collection of pieces wouldn’t work, and demanded he start nearly from scratch. Justin had practically been living at his studio, sometimes even spending the night there. It was actually making him question if this was the path he wanted to pursue. Art had always been his passion, the one thing since he was a kid that would bring him joy, and now it seemed it was only producing stress, anxiety, and plenty of self-doubt. Not to mention his hand was cramping more horribly than it had in years. A part of him knew it’d all be worth it once he finished the paintings and the show was over, but another part of him was tempted to convince Brian that they needed to book a jet to a remote island immediately and never come back.

Speaking of Brian, he wasn’t faring much better. One of his biggest clients was threatening to pull out of their contract, citing the drastic decline in sales over the past two months. They were blaming the ad campaign, conveniently forgetting the fact that two months ago their CEO had been caught on video using a whole slew of racist epithets to describe a key demographic of the very people purchasing his product. From the sounds of it, it actually probably wouldn’t take much convincing on Justin’s part to get Brian to agree to booking that jet.

They’d barely seen each other in a week, and when they had, they’d both been so tense and stressed that they didn’t even get all that much pleasure out of it. Literally. There had actually been two days when they’d gone 24 hours without fucking. Justin couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. 

Things were bad.

But tonight they both made it a point to get home before midnight. Brian had brought back some work to review, and Justin had lugged over a canvas and some paint to work on just in case, but mostly, they simply wanted to be back in each others’ presence, and if not relax, well, at least not so actively hate their lives. And while Justin was sure his agent would be livid if she knew he wasn’t holed up in his studio producing three new paintings that night, being with Brian was just too important. He had no doubt that part of the reason he was in such a foul mood was because he missed him, and he knew Brian felt the same way. Maybe some quiet time -- followed by a long, hard fuck -- was exactly what Justin needed to feel reinvigorated and ready to fully commit to finishing the paintings.

And then Brian’s phone rang.

“Fucking hell,” Brian muttered. He drained the last of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the table before answering the phone. “Cynthia, for the last time, I don’t care if --”

His face went blank, then froze, and Justin knew it wasn’t Cynthia on the other line.

“When?” Brian asked, his voice flat. 

Justin waited for him to give him a clue as to the identity of the caller, but Brian seemed to be shut off in his own private world. His mouth was tight and his eyes hard. The only movement Justin could detect was a slight tic in his jaw. 

“Fine,” Brian said. He lowered the phone from his ear and ended the call.

“Brian,” Justin said. “What happened?”

Brian stared at the phone in his hand for a long moment, then hurled it across the room. Justin winced as it crashed into the wall, but Brian didn’t even seem to notice. He just ran his hand over his face and shook his head.

“Brian,” Justin repeated. “Is everybody okay? Is it Gus? Michael?”

Brian shook his head again. “It’s nobody,” he said, and grabbed his jacket off the couch. “I need to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” Justin asked. “Let me come with you.”

“No,” Brian said. “I just -- _shit_. Where are my fucking keys?”

“In your hand,” Justin said. “Brian, you’re scaring me. Just tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Brian said. He closed the distance between them with three long steps, then gave Justin a brief, nearly painfully hard kiss. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

And just like that, he was gone.

“Shit,” Justin muttered, and went to grab Brian’s phone. The screen had shattered, of course, but it was still functioning. Justin quickly entered Brian’s passcode and pulled up the log of recent calls. “Conniving Cunt,” he read aloud. Who the fuck was that? 

But Justin didn’t have to wait long to find out, because, as if on cue, Brian’s phone began to vibrate in his hand, with an incoming call from the Conniving Cunt herself.

“Hello?” 

“Why would you hang up? Don’t you have any compassion? I don’t suppose you’re even planning to come to Pittsburgh for the funeral. I’m telling you, Brian --”

“This isn’t Brian,” Justin interrupted. “He stepped out. This is Justin. Claire, I presume?”

Claire gave a loud, wet sniff. “Can’t say I’m surprised. That’s what he always did. Lived his own life, never gave us a second thought, turned his back on us when things got rough. I bet I’ll never see him again now that --”

“Claire, I’m really not interested in any of your bullshit right now,” Justin said. “You’re calling. Just tell me why.”

Claire sniffed again. “Mom died.”

Justin frowned. He figured it had to be something like that, but it was still a shock to hear. “What happened?”

“Car accident. She was driving drunk and crashed into a tree.”

“Was anybody else hurt?” Justin asked.

“No.”

Well, that was a relief, at least. “Good.”

“Will you make sure Brian comes to Pittsburgh as soon as possible?” Claire asked. “I need him to --”

“You know, Claire, maybe once in a while you might try thinking of Brian when you _don’t_ need him for something,” Justin said. “Although, to be honest, I’m not sure how charitable he’s feeling toward you, given how, ten years after the fact, you have yet to apologize to him for falsely accusing him of molesting your son. How _is_ John, by the way? I assume you’ve been visiting him in prison every weekend. You know, it’s _still_ a shock to me that he ended up there, given how you raised him to be such an honest, respectable young man.”

“Well, I --”

“Listen, Claire,” Justin said. “I’m going to make sure Brian does exactly what _he_ needs to do. I can’t guarantee it’ll have anything to do with you. In fact, I wouldn’t hold your breath. Now, just do us a favor, and don’t call back. Bye, now.”

Justin smirked at the sound of Claire’s stunned sputtering, then ended the call. “Conniving cunt is right,” he said, and set the phone down on the kitchen table. 

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. The adrenaline high he got from finally telling Claire everything he fantasized about telling Brian’s family was fading fast, and taking any lingering energy he had saved up along with it. Fuck, what the hell was he going to do? He remembered what Brian was like when his dad had died. He’d mostly leaned on Michael then, but this time, the responsibility would fall on Justin’s shoulders. As it should. He was Brian’s partner and he loved him more than anything, through good times and bad, and wanted to be there for him no matter what.

But Justin could barely stand on his own right now. How the hell was he supposed to carry Brian through this? 

He wondered if he should go find Brian, but quickly dismissed the idea. They were in the middle of New fucking York; Brian could be anywhere. And when he got in these moods -- which were exceedingly rare these days, but still happened every so often -- he didn’t want to be found. He needed time to be by himself, alone with his own thoughts and demons.

Besides, he had promised Justin he’d be back. And Brian had never broken a promise.

Justin buried his head in his hands. He could feel panic rising in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. He was exhausted as hell. His career was on the line. _Brian’s_ career was on the line. And Joan Kinney just had to fucking choose tonight to get herself killed. That goddamn bitch. She had to spite them even in death. 

Well, there was nothing that could be done now. Brian would be back eventually. Justin would just have to use the time to gather his strength so he could be the support Brian needed right now. 

But first he needed a drink.

A glass of Merlot in his hand (Daphne had once told him red wine was best for dark moods and romance, and it had been his habit ever since), Justin turned to face the blank canvas propped up on the easel in the corner of the living area. Maybe this would actually get him over his artistic slump. He’d always produced his best works when he was emotionally charged. Granted, he was feeling more emotionally _drained_ tonight, but maybe it would work the same way. 

As he painted, he thought back on his admittedly limited interactions with Joan Kinney. The first time Brian had mentioned her to him had been on Christmas Day, just a few months after they had met. Justin had spent the day at Debbie’s, not willing to spend the holiday with Craig. Brian had stopped by shortly after dinner, high as a fucking kite. He’d immediately tried to pull Justin upstairs, but Justin had resisted, wanting to help Debbie clean up. Brian had given him that irresistible smile, the one that was part smirk, part charm, all danger, and whipped out a sprig of mistletoe from his jacket pocket.

“Come on,” he’d said. “It’s tradition.”

Justin had accepted the kiss, of course, but then walked away. “Wouldn’t your mother expect you to help clean up?”

All the laughter had drained from Brian’s face. “My dear old mother expected a lot more than that. That’s why I came here.”

Justin had looked over to Debbie, who’d only given him a look that clearly told him to drop it. He’d turned back to Brian, but he’d actually picked up a sponge and was washing the dishes in sink. Justin had come up behind him, pressed his lips to the back of Brian’s neck. He remembered being fascinated by the way that one little gesture had eased so much of the tension of out Brian’s shoulders. 

When the kitchen was spotless, and Brian had once again tugged at Justin’s wrist to bring him upstairs, Justin had gone without protest. Brian had screwed him long and slow that night, nearly silent even as Justin had been reduced to wordless, endless moans. Afterwards, Brian had held him so tightly it almost hurt. Justin had tried to get a look at his face, but Brian had buried it in his shoulder. Justin had felt his skin there grow rather hot and wet, and he’d wondered if Brian was crying. He’d quickly dismissed that thought; Brian was likely just sweaty. He wasn’t the type to cry at all, especially not after sex.

Tonight, Justin was certain it hadn’t just been perspiration he’d felt on his shoulder that night.

Then, of course, had come the day Joan had showed up at Brian’s loft and Justin had accidentally outed him. Brian had put on a brave front, saying it didn’t bother him that his mother told him he was going to hell, that she viewed her hypocritical minister as more of a son than Brian, but Justin knew the truth. He could see the hurt in Brian’s eyes whenever he talked about her. He noticed how Brian reached out for him more, leaned into his every touch.

Oh, yes. Justin knew exactly the effect Joan Kinney had on Brian.

The last time he’d seen Joan was after he’d moved to New York but before Brian had joined him there. He’d been back to Pittsburgh to visit, and had dragged Brian along with him to join his mother in helping Molly find a dress for homecoming. The four of them had been together, enjoying some frozen yogurt at the mall’s food court, when Justin noticed Brian’s posture stiffen and his jaw clench tightly. He’d turned to see Joan standing just three feet away from them, entirely still, her eyes locked on Brian.

Then she’d walked away. 

Molly and his mom, of course, had no idea that anything had happened. Brian had simply quickly excused himself, saying he had a quick errand to run, and he’d meet them at the dress shop. And, sure enough, he’d kept his promise, rejoining them less than an hour later. Justin had kissed him, squeezes his hand, wanting to be sure he was okay, but Brian had refused to divulge where he’d disappeared to.

It had become clear when his mom reached into her purse to pay for Molly’s dress and pulled out a jewelry box instead of her wallet. Brian had appeared to have developed a sudden interest in tiaras, completely giving himself away as the culprit. When she’d opened the box, revealing a simple silver bracelet with a few delicate charms dangling from it, she’d immediately gone over to Brian to give him a big hug but tell him she couldn’t accept it, he’d only shrugged and said she deserved it, and that charm bracelets were making a comeback.

His mom had finally agreed to accept the bracelet, but only under one condition: that they return to the jewelry store to purchase a charm with Brian’s name engraved on it to match the ones for Justin and Molly. Brian, of course, had protested, but even he couldn’t get Jennifer Taylor to change her mind. Not to mention Justin had been pretty sure Brian wasn’t even putting up his best fight.

That theory had been confirmed the following night when his mom had called them to thank Brian for the flowers but that she really needed to stop spoiling her, or else she’d grow to expect it. 

Justin knew for a fact that his mom received flowers every week, a different stunning arrangement each time, and they weren’t sent from him.

Sighing, Justin stepped back and looked at the canvas, and then immediately winced. It was like staring at a soul pummeled and bruised. Wild, angry colors cried out to him; devastated, desperate patterns shouted at him to take notice. There was no way he could display this. It was too dangerous, too reckless. Too raw.

He squirted some black paint out onto his palette and then, in careful, broad strokes, covered up every square inch of the canvas. 

Justin glanced up at the clock. It was nearly half past two. _Fuck_. Where the hell could Brian be?

“Screw it,” Justin muttered, and grabbed his coat. He quickly scribbled a note to Brian, telling him he was out looking for him and to call him if he made it home first, and hurried out the door and down the stairs.

He knew the path he and Brian usually took when they went on walks together, so he’d do that, but he’d also have to check in at all their usual bars, and --

“Hey.”

Justin nearly shot a foot in the air. “Christ, Brian! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Brian raised a lazy eyebrow as he puffed out a few rings of smoke, then dropped the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. “Standing here, leaning against the wall of our building?”

“Yes,” Justin said. He frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Delightful,” Brian said. “I told you I’d be back.”

“I know,” Justin said. “I just…”

Brian exhaled, leaned his head back against the wall. “Yeah.”

“Your phone rang just after you left,” Justin said. “A certain Conniving Cunt, Claire?”

Brian snorted.

“I like the nickname,” Justin said. “Accurate _and_ alliterative. Well done.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

Brian turned to face him. “No, you’re not,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” Justin admitted. “But I _am_ sorry about the effect it’s having over you.”

“She’s not having any sort of effect on me,” Brian said. “I don’t give a shit that she died. She’s been dead to me for years.”

Justin moved closer. Brian raised an eyebrow at him, and it reminded him so much of their early days together, when Brian seemed to _dare_ him to step closer, waiting to see if he’d be brave enough to risk petting the vicious guard dog. But Justin hadn’t backed down then, and he sure as hell wasn’t backing down now. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Brian’s waist, and tucked his face into the nape of his neck.

At first, it was like embracing a redwood. Brian was still, tall, unmoving, unyielding. But then something seemed to crumble, and he buried his head in Justin’s shoulder. His entire body shook, just constant tremors that seemed they were coming from somewhere deep inside of him and now that they were breaking free, he was powerless to stop. Justin only held him tighter. And this time, when he felt his shoulder growing damp, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind as to the cause.

Somehow, it made Justin love Brian even more. 

Gradually, Brian’s body stopped shaking, and he pulled back. To Justin’s surprise, he quirked his lip, looking shockingly amused for a man who’d just been crying for at least twenty minutes. “You have paint on your face,” Brian said.

“Do I?” Justin asked, reaching up to touch his cheek. 

Brian’s hand met his, and he brushed them over the spots where Justin imagined were covered in paint. “You look like a football player,” Brian said, chuckling now. “Just black streaks under your eyes.”

“Not a panda?” Justin asked.

That must have been the right thing to say, because Brian burst out laughing. He laughed so hard more tears strained out of his eyes, and he leaned back against the wall again, drawing deep breaths even as he was nearly hysterical with his amusement. Justin couldn’t help but join in, and Brian pulled him in close to him, still chuckling as he wrapped his arm around him and guided him back inside the building.

The moment couldn’t last forever, of course. It barely even lasted up the fourteen floors in the elevator. By the time they reached their door, Brian was somber once again, and Justin was back to not knowing what the fuck he was going to do.

“Are we going to the funeral?” Justin asked, watching Brian pull a beer out of the fridge.

Brian snorted as he popped open the cap. “Don’t be ridiculous. With as much as you have to paint over the next few weeks, you can’t afford to go back to stare at my poor, dead mom.” He took a long swig from the bottle, then muttered, “And neither can I.”

Justin knew he wasn’t just talking about work.

“I’ll send her a check,” Brian said. “It’s all she wanted, anyway. Mom’s the last thing we had in common. Shouldn’t hear from her again. Unless, of course, one of my darling nephews ends up in the electric chair and I need to pay for another funeral.”

“I’m --”

“If you finish that sentence with the word ‘sorry,’ I swear to --”

“They don’t deserve you,” Justin interrupted. “You deserve so much better than your family.”

Brian stared at him for a long moment, then took another swallow of beer before walking over to Justin. “And I have better,” Brian said, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. He kissed the top of his head. “I have my own family that they’ll never be able to touch.”

Justin twisted around so he could kiss him on the mouth. “Good. I wouldn’t let them, anyway.”

Brian snorted. “I had a feeling that would be your response.” He turned his head to stare at the canvas Justin had painted that night. “What are we looking at here?”

Justin looked over at the painting, taking it all in. Either the colorful paint hadn’t dried properly, or he hadn’t applied a thick enough coat of black paint, but whatever it was, it produced an interesting effect. It was a black canvas, to be sure, but somehow all the colors were still peeking through. It was more noticeable in some spots than in others, but still, the end result was clear: despite Justin’s best attempts to cover up and conceal those frightening colors, they’d always leak through.

It was oddly beautiful.

And it reminded him fully, painfully of Brian.

“I was thinking about you when I painted it,” Justin said. He didn’t need to tell him that he was also thinking about Joan. She wasn’t worth the breath of mentioning her name. Brian was the important one. He’d always bear the scars of Joan Kinney on his flesh, those violent colors peeking through the black. And while once it may have destroyed him, now it only made him stronger. Brian had survived, had _thrived_ , and was so much more than anything his family ever could have dreamed he’d be.

“I like it,” Brian said. “Your agent will never let you show it, though.”

“That’s okay,” Justin said. “Not every painting needs to be shown to the world.”

Brian smiled, that soft, special smile Justin had only ever seen directed at him, and kissed him again. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”

“Okay,” Justin said. “I just want to clean up this paint. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Brian gave him one last kiss, a soft and gentle one that felt as though he was extracting a good luck charm from Justin’s soul to carry him over the distance to their bedroom. Justin smiled as he watched him leave, then quickly went to clean up his supplies.

When Justin made it to their bedroom, Brian was already naked under the covers, his eyes closed. Justin stripped off his clothes and carefully eased himself into bed, on the off chance Brian had already managed to fall asleep. 

But Brian immediately shifted positions so his body was flush against Justin’s. “Thank you,” he murmured into Justin’s ear, and twined their fingers together.

Justin smiled, his eyes burning.

Maybe he didn’t need to be strong for Brian.

Maybe simply being there was enough.

Fortunately, that was already his plan.

“I love you, too, Brian,” Justin whispered, and squeezed his hand.

Brian let out a deep breath and nuzzled his shoulder, settling into Justin’s embrace. Gradually, his breathing slowed, and he drifted off to sleep. He always looked so peaceful in sleep, content, at ease with the world. And yet still he held fast to Justin, curling up somehow even closer to him, his head never leaving his shoulder, his fingers never loosening themselves from Justin’s hold. 

Justin knew it wasn’t just sleep that made Brian this way.

It was a powerful, overwhelming thought, and a little bit frightening.

But it was also just as it was meant to be.

Finally closing his eyes, Justin gave Brian’s hand another squeeze, and allowed sleep to take him.


End file.
